Whatever Remains
by KCS
Summary: Spin-off of However Improbable, unrelated to it but inspired by it. Challenge 010 for an LJ comm, the challenge being to create an entire Holmes AU. Elements that originated in HI belong to me, all others and characters to their creators.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: _Whatever Remains (1/3)_  
**Characters**: Holmes, Watson (but not as we know them)  
**Rating**: K+ for some vague blood and violence, etc.  
**Word Count**: 2937 (this bit)  
**Warnings**: AU. _Odd _AU. Probably many cliches, including the old "eliminate the impossible" line.  
**Summary**: Written for Challenge 010 at the LJ community watsons_woes, the challenge being to create and entire AU. I first created elements of this AU in my crossover novel (also on this site), _However Improbable_, back in November of 2009; if you've read it, then you no doubt will see where I'm going with this. For the rest...let's just say I didn't have time to do the two ideas I had that I really loved for this challenge, and so had to fall back on very familiar territory - in two universes. More than a crossover, but less than an entire AU. Written in a hurry because I've been writing on a Haiti charity fic and waited until the last second (almost literally) for this. Not really a part of _However Improbable_, but spun-off from it.

* * *

My friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as readers of the _Strand_ magazine and _Beeton's Christmas Annual_ will know, is an extraordinary person. His immense strength of mind and body, coupled with his almost inhuman intelligence and unswerving instinct, propelled him into fame at an alarming rate in the mid to late 1880s, and by the time of his miraculous resurrection (of sorts) in the year 1894 he had become a household word across our nation and the Continent.

However, at the time and date in which I met the man, he was no more than a struggling amateur in the field, rooming in a dilapidated tenement in Montague Street, and fighting valiantly against the constraints of finances and society to find his place in the world. As I was myself a weak, crippled Afghan veteran with strange gifts which I could share with no one and resources that came short of meeting my wishes for a state of living, when we were introduced in January of the year 1881 we both naturally found it amenable to combine forces, and thereby lodgings. A week later found us both safely ensconced in a comfortable flat in Baker Street, a considerable improvement upon both our separate dwellings previously, and soon thereafter we settled into a fairly stable custom of existence.

My friend was punctual, fastidious, brilliant, mysterious – all the traits that might attract the attention of a house-bound, bored, retired army surgeon. While he was withdrawn and inscrutable, barely giving any response save what courtesy demanded of him, he was both kind and considerate in his own oddly unemotional way, and before long our enforced acquaintanceship flourished into a friendship that neither of us ever mentioned but both knew existed. He never spoke of his emotions, but I needed not the words in order to see his compassion and gentleness toward me and his clients.

Though I was greatly pleased to discover such a friend in the cesspool that is this wicked city of London, due to the secrets I harboured I found myself unwilling to pursue an intimate relationship with anyone, despite my need for attachment to another. This was nothing new to me; I had grown up with many friends as a small child due to my abilities but then realized as I matured how very different I truly was compared against those around me. I had learnt at a very young age how to keep my own secrets, and not even the world's only private consulting detective could pry them from me even had he wished to.

Which he did not; never have I seen a man more pleased with his own thoughts rather than interested in the business of others. Sherlock Holmes was, to all he met, an extraordinary man with extraordinary talents and perceptions; and yet he spoke of himself in an oddly self-deprecating fashion, as if he were not himself responsible for his brilliance and as if it were of absolutely no consequence. He shrugged off all compliments regarding his intelligence, did not flaunt his superior physical strength even when given deserved opportunity, nor did he seek to draw attention to himself in any way. He required no credit for solving his cases, nor did he ever even do more than offer me a quirky half-smile when I protested the Yard or the papers taking the glory for his accomplishments.

"The work is its own reward, Doctor," he would say with that twist of the lips, "and I neither require nor desire public acclaim for my pursuits."

This I found it difficult to grasp, though I knew for fact that the man was speaking the truth; he was as eager to remain out of the public gaze as it was possible to be, though I could not for the life of me tell why such a talented man had not an ego to match his brilliance.

Little did I know at that time, in those blessedly innocent early days, that Mr. Sherlock Holmes harbored as deep and incredible a secret as I did myself.

* * *

The first year of our acquaintance passed relatively uneventfully. Though thoroughly unaccustomed to pain of all kinds, the intense, never-subsiding agony that radiated from a permanently damaged shoulder and Achilles tendon was a new experience to learn to live with, and my frustration with my inability to heal myself grated on my nerves more than any oddity of my fellow lodger's ever could. Minor injuries I had seen and dealt with upon plentiful occasions; but this…this weakness, and inability to do for myself what I had been previously able to do due to my damaged condition, was no less than maddening. The knowledge that this physician could not – would never be able to – heal himself as he did and had done others, galled me; and my condition, and the pitying looks that accompanied it as I walked, was thoroughly distasteful.

Surprisingly enough, it was my morose companion who was the kindest of all those with whom I came into contact. Holmes was incredible in his knowledge of what to say and when, when I needed silence and when an offer of assistance would be completely mortifying. He anticipated my needs, physically and emotionally, and he was more compassionate without pitying than any other of my acquaintance. Had I not known the man better, I should have thought that he spent an inordinate amount of time studying my moods and habits, so attuned did he seem to be with my very thoughts.

Naturally, this pleasant quality more than made up for his oddities; some of which were quite bizarre in nature. His fascination with weaponry, for instance, and the way he seemed to know a good deal about chemistry and physics but absolutely nothing about basic childhood astronomy; his knowledge was immense, vast, and yet about very simple things he appeared to be entirely clueless. I caught him one day doing intrinsic trigonometry problems in his head, and yet the next he quite embarrassedly asked me what the devil was I talking about – what was a gramophone?

These quirks were quite endearing, and afforded us quite a bit of amusement at his expense over various meals and walks through the city. Holmes had an insatiable thirst for exact knowledge, and a memory unrivalled by any I have ever heard of; and he seemed to be never happier than when he was exercising his formidable brain. He seemed to need little sleep or food, eating irregularly or when I insisted, and preferred to sit silently and contemplate before the fire rather than take to his bed.

And so it was that many were the nights when, unable to dream because of my own pain or else the phantom of his, I would descend the steps silently from my bedroom, and find him with the window of our sitting room open, gazing silently up at the smog-brushed skies, and I could feel the sadness hanging about the room in a lingering malaise. On these occasions, he always turned before I had entered the room, and while he said nothing nor attempted any expression whatsoever, we would spend the rest of the night talking by the dwindling fire. When I asked him once why he seemed so…sad, there was no other word for the feeling, he only offered me a quick smile and reminded me that he was prone to fits of depression, and that I did much to help stave off those despairing hours of the night.

And so, in this desirable fashion, a year passed. We renewed the lease on the apartments, Holmes's business began to pick up slightly, and I started to grow accustomed to the idea that my main career might possibly be over, but that I might still be of good to those around me. I began volunteering at charity hospitals, and though the work was draining, to the point where one night Holmes insisted I cut back or risk losing my health, I was more satisfied with using my abilities in the intent they were supposed to be employed. I followed his request, and began to pace myself accordingly, though I of course never had an idea when I was as close to collapse as he seemed to believe I was. Holmes began taking me along on a few of his cases, the less dangerous ones, and together we began to form what I sensed was a close partnership if both of us could drop the barriers we had carefully placed up to protect ourselves.

As the weeks passed, I began to relax in the belief that my secret was safe from Holmes. Even his abilities could never know the knowledge I hid deep within my soul, for there was no conceivable way they could locate and extract that information. There were times when he suspected, I know he suspected – but I knew too that he could have no idea of what he was attempting to deduce, as it was not something that he or anyone else in this world would have ever encountered. Only one other man suspected what I truly was, and he had been unconscious when I betrayed myself to save his life; no one in the world knew, and no one ever would know.

Until that night in late 1882, when I not only betrayed my own secrets, but discovered that the man I had been living with for nearly two years held one of his own, deeper even than mine, and darker.

The case itself was of no great importance. A smuggling gang – Indian spices, perfumes, and silks; lucrative enough to make them dangerous, but not enough that they wished to kill outright. They were armed only with daggers of varying lengths, none so large as the _khukri_ I had faced in the East. Holmes had somehow sensed their approach to our hiding place, and I knew they were intent upon drawing blood; together we were ready, and we fought them off in short order before calling the police.

To my surprise, Sherlock Holmes bolted soon after the constables arrived, with a hurried request that I explain matters to them. The nervousness fairly radiating off the young men preoccupied me enough that I did not notice much else save that my friend's face had washed to a sickly shade of pale green before he scurried off into the nearest alley, and so I reported to the best of my abilities and then took a cab back to Baker Street as soon as I was in a more populated district.

Holmes had warned me never to traverse the East End alone, but I had and did when necessary to see to a patient; I had no difficulty sensing malevolence, evil, lust when they approached, and was always fully armed. Only once did someone make the mistake of attempting to jump me in a side street, and he regretted both that movement, and _most_ of his movements, for the next few days after.

But this time, I dared not linger; something was wrong, and though I knew somehow that it was not life-threatening it was yet a threat. The drive to our flat seemed interminably lengthy, but at last we did arrive. Tossing a half-crown to the cabbie, I bolted up the steps and into the hall as fast as my bad leg would permit, and after reassuring a twice-worried Mrs. Hudson that I was simply in a hurry to discuss the situation with Holmes I started up the seventeen steps.

His increasing unease which lingered in the hall suddenly cut itself off as I opened the door and hurried in, worried about what I might find.

"Holmes, are you all right?"

"Ah, Watson," came his voice from the depths of his armchair, turned toward the fire. "You really should not hurry so up those stairs, my dear fellow. And yes, I am perfectly well, thank you."

"Then what the deuce was that all about?" I growled, allowing the door to slam behind me in my irritation; he wished me to believe that he was perfectly all right and I would have none of it.

"I needed to ascertain that no others of that gang were making off with their smuggled goods, my dear fellow; I hope you did not mind my asking you to wrap up the case for me? You are quite capable."

By this time I had rounded the settee and was settling gingerly into my own chair. Holmes, across from me, was offering me another one of those half, almost hesitant, grins of impertinence that usually served to disarm my instincts.

Now, however, I would not be dissuaded.

"Suppose you stop trying to fabricate a story for me and actually tell me the truth?" I suggested quietly.

He gave no reaction, true to his nature, but blinked slowly at me. "Why would you think I am lying to you, Doctor?" was the reply, toneless save for curiosity.

"I do not have to think; I _know_ you are," I retorted. "The same way I know you are also lying about being uninjured," I added for good measure when he would have protested.

This earned me a startled look. "I know for fact that I have given you absolutely no indications that I am anything but fully functional, Doctor." His eyes suddenly narrowed, pinning me to the chair in sudden dismay. "You could not possibly know that."

"Call it physician's instinct," I hedged, but with less bluffing force than I attempted to have. "Let me see your arm."

"No." The answer was cold, almost frigid – no tone like he had ever addressed me before in, and it froze me in my tracks for a moment. But only a moment.

"Holmes, you are hurt. I am a doctor. Let me look at it; those knives were filthy," I remonstrated, and reached for the neat bandage that I could now see peeked out from under his bedraggled sleeve.

"I said no, Doctor!" he snapped, and with the whip-like crack of his voice came his hand around my wrist, clenching it in a grip more painful than a vise; I actually felt a bone grind against another and could not block the burn of pain that shot up my arm.

I had made no sound, no grimace (for I was fully capable of dealing with more agonizing sensations than that without reaction), and yet his eyes suddenly widened in horror, and he dropped my wrist as if it had set his fingers alight.

"I am sorry, Watson," said he in a low tone, his eyes darkening as I stared at him, completely puzzled. "I did not intend…you merely took me by surprise."

His stumbling over words, with his reluctance to admit my assistance…and his unaccountable realization that he was injuring me (I could already see bruises forming, the imprints of fingers around my wrist)…something was not quite right here, though now he was obviously controlling his actions and thoughts as I could not truly sense anything but unease from him and the pain from his arm.

"Holmes." He looked up at me, warily and obviously about to bolt if I made the wrong move. "Let me see it; I assure you I have seen – and possibly done – far worst in the East."

"It is not that I doubt your skill, Doctor," he replied instantly, with a disarming smile that did not take me in for a moment, "merely that I have already cared for it. It will be nothing but a memory by morning, provided I am able to sleep undisturbed."

"Holmes." I placed a cautious hand on his bandaged arm, and this time he did not attempt to either resist nor prevent me.

The wound was a deep slash, but he had bandaged it well enough that I could see no bleeding on the white linen below my fingers. It had not quite stopped bleeding, however, and so I spared a moment to induce clotting from the throbbing area – it no doubt would become infected if not kept sterilized properly.

But when I tried to remove some of the pain from the injury, I found an iron grip again around my wrist and I was hauled roughly to my feet before the fire. Holmes's stormy grey eyes bore into mine in unspoken accusation – and that alone should have given me my answer to the question that took my breath away.

No man should have been able to know what I had tried to do.

No human should have known.

"Well?" I managed through my clenched jaw. "Are you going to break my arm, or simply _try_ to for the next few minutes?"

He released my wrist, slowly, cautiously, and I saw reason light back into his eyes. The accusation was still pouring from him in waves, but now it was tinged with curiosity…and something else, something I had never thought to see or sense from my sad friend.

Hope?

"Watson…" His throat worked for a moment, and I watched with fascination as he brought himself back under the iron control he wielded as a defensive weapon.

"You should not have been able to tell," I stated shortly, wary of any further outbursts. "Tell me how you could."

To my surprise, he did not attempt to lie to me again; possibly because he knew it would not work, possibly because whatever his secrets, he was tired of keeping them. I could not tell which, unless he lowered his defenses as he had a moment ago.

Holmes looked at me, and bringing his thin fingers together pressed their fingertips against the opposing ones in a gesture I had observed signified unease. "I shall," he finally spoke, fixing me motionless with that almost hypnotic dark gaze, "…if you will tell me what you are."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: _Whatever Remains (2/3)_  
**Characters**: Holmes, Watson (but not as we know them)  
**Rating**: K+ for some vague blood and violence, etc.  
**Word Count**: 1490 (this bit)  
**Warnings**: AU. _Odd _AU. Probably many cliches, including the old "eliminate the impossible" line.  
**Summary**: Written for Challenge 010 at the LJ community watsons_woes, the challenge being to create and entire AU. I first created elements of this AU in my crossover novel (also on this site), _However Improbable_, back in November of 2009; if you've read it, then you no doubt will see where I'm going with this. For the rest...let's just say I didn't have time to do the two ideas I had that I really loved for this challenge, and so had to fall back on very familiar territory - in two universes. More than a crossover, but less than an entire AU. Written in a hurry because I've been writing on a Haiti charity fic and waited until the last second (almost literally) for this. Not really a part of _However Improbable_, but spun-off from it.

* * *

I should have been surprised, but was not – should have felt panic, but did not. I knew now that we both had secrets hidden well, and I knew too that those secrets were not going to remain so much longer.

"I…am afraid that I really do not know," I answered honestly.

The dark eyebrows were on a collision course with each other. "I beg your pardon?"

I shrugged, and settled back into my chair with difficulty; my leg was unfortunately wreaking havoc with my equilibrium. After a tense moment, Holmes followed, though he leaned forward to look at me, his fingers steepled. "I do not know, Holmes," I reiterated. "I know that I am able to…take pain from someone, even physical injury with an effort; and I can sense a man's emotions even at a distance. What that exactly means, I have no idea. There certainly is no precedent that I can discover in medical history, and were I to attempt further research I should be admitted to a mental institution in all probability; for who would believe such a thing?"

Holmes was staring at me, though he looked considerably less shocked than another man might have had I spoken thus to him. "You did not receive that shoulder wound in the manner you reported you did," he ventured with a return to his usual gentleness when speaking with me.

I glared at him, not about to accept his pity or his recrimination for what I had done. "No, I did not," I snapped.

"May I inquire as to how you did receive it?"

He looked honestly curious, and I decided to humor him; the truth was bound to come out at some point, at any rate. "It was my orderly," I muttered, picking at a thread on the seat-cushion. "Murray, was his name. He was little more than a lad…though I was not an old man myself."

"He was shot in the manner you claimed to be?" Holmes asked softly.

I looked up in defiance. "Yes, he was."

"And you thought it wise to take the injury upon yourself?"

Belatedly realizing that my hands were shaking at the recollection, I gripped the chair-arm firmly to hide the fact. "I need not defend my actions to you, Holmes."

"No, you need not. I am…curious, Doctor, that is all," he replied, smiling at me – genuinely this time, though why I had no idea. "This may or may not surprise you, but I am…acquainted with men of your abilities, but usually they are too wary of their own lives to take on such a critical injury as you did."

"The injury was not what broke me, or my health," I muttered, shifting uneasily. If I closed my eyes, I could still see that battlefield and what had happened there – events that no one would ever believe if I told them, nightmares that I could safely share with no one. "I did not account for my weakened condition when I made the effort…it was the enteric fever that nearly killed me. And no," I replied with a bitter chuckle, "I did not take it from someone. For once I involuntarily _caught_ the malady, and in my condition simply could not fight it off."

Holmes nodded sympathetically, less distraught by all this than I should ever have expected. "And your ankle?"

"That was a legitimate injury from a previous battle; I had not the time nor strength to heal myself when there were so many worse off than I," I whispered, for there had been even too many for me to help; many had died before my strength had returned each time. "Now the injuries have healed incorrectly, there is nothing I can do to return to the man I was."

"You in effect…crippled yourself for life, to save your comrades?"

"I suppose you may call it that, though I doubt there was anything so heroic about it," I muttered, and lurched to my feet in search of a heady brandy; this was far more soul-searching than I had planned to do tonight, even to the one man in London I knew instinctively that I could trust with my secrets – with my life, if necessary. I knew the secrets he hid were as strange and incredible as my own, which was why he could believe me so readily, but that knowledge did not make the process of memory-baring any less painful.

"Stay," said he as I struggled to my feet, and he placed a strong hand upon my shoulder. "Allow me?"

How he seemed to know what I had been about, I had no idea; but my tentative balance decided for me, and I folded silently back into my chair. Within moments, he was back with a steaming cup of tea from the tray Mrs. Hudson had brought upon his arrival home, into which he had dashed a goodly shot of brandy. I accepted it with gratitude.

"Your wrist," he mentioned when I winced slightly. "Did I harm you?"

"Not as much as I know you are capable of," I answered, raising an eyebrow at him over the teacup. "Are you going to explain to me how you have the strength of three men?"

He squirmed in some obvious discomfort, and I found myself laughing; he looked so endearingly awkward, so at odds with his normally strict composure. When his lips twitched downward in his equivalent of a scowl, I only chuckled into my tea and finished the brew in relative silence.

"This is not an easy subject of which to speak," he muttered at last, twisting his fingers into interlocking positions and then unlacing them. "You are not the only man who has his secrets, though yours are significantly more credible than mine."

"I am aware of that, as well as of your current uneasiness and your debate between telling the whole truth and part of it; you needn't inform me of that much," I replied dryly.

He gave a short bark of a laugh and sat back. "Even with your own unusual…talents, Doctor, you may find my story somewhat difficult to accept."

"Try me."

"Oh, I shall. Perhaps I had better begin the demonstration in true dramatic fashion?" Grinning at my curiosity, he began to unwind the bandage from his injured arm, revealing a nasty-looking gash seamed with clotting blood.

I vaguely heard the empty teacup in my hand thud on the carpet, but only vaguely; I was too engaged in staring at my friend's injury.

The tissue around the wound was inflamed, in a mottled shade of _green_ – and only slightly lighter in hue than the deep emerald blood that was coagulating in the gash.

"What in the name of the devil…" I managed faintly after a moment, and saw Holmes's lips twitch in amusement.

"As you know, Doctor, human blood is red," he responded companionably, beginning to re-wrap the wound.

"And therefore you are _not_ human, is that the logical deductive leap?" I shot back, still staring at the vivid greenish splotches adorning his arm and the linens.

"Quite."

I blinked, but it did make a sort of sense; and besides, this man could not lie to me without my knowledge. My friend displayed some very…not-human, I might almost say super-human, qualities that were inexplicable enough to us mortals. And I myself was not human, not at least as the average man called himself; and that knowledge coupled with the certainty that he was telling the truth possibly mitigated my shock over the revelation.

"Then…what are you?" I asked with understandable wariness. "You are certainly not of this world as we know it."

My friend smiled at my acceptance, and leaned forward. "Would you believe that I am not of this world, at all?"

"You are surely not a demon," I scoffed, for the idea was absurd.

"No, no," he chuckled amicably, "though my original features have been mistaken by uninformed species to be somewhat like your Devil himself."

"Original features?"

A thin smile creased Holmes's face. "Originally, my dear Doctor, by that meaning prior to having my appearance altered upon my arrival in your world. Upon my arrival here, I was taken into custody by government officials, one of which persuaded the powers that be that integrating me into society was far preferable, and more beneficial to Britain in the long run, to executing me outright or incarcerating me and hushing up the matter in a political conspiracy. This man is my contact in the government; I answer to him, and use my abilities for my country on occasion as repayment for my life being spared."

"Yes, well, that is all highly intriguing, if slightly unbelievable," I replied, though I knew instinctively that he was indeed speaking the truth. "But you have deviated from your original statement – your physical appearance, you said, in what you insist upon calling 'your own world'?"

My friend – was he, truly? I wondered now – smiled thinly. "Quite, Doctor. On my own planet, I possessed pointed ears."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: _Whatever Remains (3/3)_  
**Characters**: Holmes, Watson (but not as we know them)  
**Rating**: K+ for some vague blood and violence, etc.  
**Word Count**: 3848 (this bit)  
**Warnings**: AU. _Odd _AU. Probably many cliches, including the old "eliminate the impossible" line.  
**Summary**: Written for Challenge 010 at the LJ community watsons_woes, the challenge being to create and entire AU. I first created elements of this AU in my crossover novel (also on this site), _However Improbable_, back in November of 2009; if you've read it, then you no doubt will see where I'm going with this. For the rest...let's just say I didn't have time to do the two ideas I had that I really loved for this challenge, and so had to fall back on very familiar territory - in two universes. More than a crossover, but less than an entire AU. Written in a hurry because I've been writing on a Haiti charity fic and waited until the last second (almost literally) for this. Not really a part of _However Improbable_, but spun-off from it.

**A/N:** This third part isn't at all like I wanted it but it was down to the wire; I wrote until five minutes before the challenge deadline and then had to quit or be disqualified. Anyway, that's why this part especially is a bit disjointed. I fully intend to go back and flesh it out quite a bit, and possibly write some more oneshots, etc., in this universe if there's any interest. Meanwhile, thank you for reading!

* * *

Of all the explanations I had expected, the stuff that legends and fairy tales were made on did not even rank among them. I snorted and leaned down to pick up my teacup before the milky dregs dribbled out onto the rug. "_Really_, Holmes…"

"I do not lie, Doctor, especially to a man who can tell that I am based solely on the sensations I apparently exude."

That gained him an even longer snort, for he had attempted it only just moments ago. "You may try, but you are correct in that I can tell when you are hiding something. With that in mind, suppose you begin at the beginning?"

Holmes slanted an eyebrow my direction. "Are you quite certain you are willing to hear me out without disbelieving my story at its inception?"

"Holmes," I responded dryly, crossing my legs and leaning back in my chair, "You are conversing with a man who can heal a mortal injury by willpower alone."

"True." Amusement danced briefly in the austere eyes, before they darkened again to a more serious grey sheen.

"Besides that," I added with a smile, "I am the one in this partnership who has always been prone to romanticism and believing that there truly are more things in heaven and earth than we are fit to know of."

My friend chuckled briefly, and I did not have to see the minute slumping of his shoulders to know that he was relaxing his tense posture. "Ah, my dear Watson…whatever would I have done without you for the last two years?" said he with that subtle tinge of fondness he would never admit to openly.

I raised an eyebrow to match his. "Possibly starved to death in Montague Street, for one."

Holmes leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Would it so surprise you to learn that my race is capable of going for many days, weeks under some circumstances, without food? Or sleep, for that matter," he added as an afterthought.

That would explain much, but all in its time; this would be hard enough to accept even in a logical sequence. "The beginning, Holmes?"

"Ah, yes." An ember snapped and fell into glowing coals, one of which rolled toward us. Holmes kicked it quickly back into the grate, and then turned his full attention to me. "Well, Doctor. I am not, as you would call me, human. I am Vulcan."

I blinked. "The Roman god of fire?"

I was startled when my friend laughed outright, in his oddly silent fashion. He trembled with merriment for a moment until the fit passed, and then grinned at me. "Nothing of the kind, my dear fellow," he answered, chuckling briefly even as he said it. "Though I have been told that other species would most likely find our planet's heat levels intolerable. My planet's name is Vulcan, Watson. And we are called Vulcans, or Vulcanians.

"Your…planet?" I asked incredulously.

"Indeed," he replied, his eyes sparkling, though I could sense a wave of nostalgic sadness. "I am accustomed to a desert climate, Doctor, one reason I find these rains and fogs of yours to be quite distasteful."

"But," I protested, "there is no planet named Vulcan in our solar system!"

Again, that sad, mysterious smile. "Correct, Doctor. It is in a neighboring solar system; but let us not discuss the science of matters which I cannot, at the moment, prove. You are able to perceive that I am indeed telling the truth, are you not?"

"Or at least that you believe it is the truth," I replied with some reservation.

"Fair enough." My friend straightened in his chair, and steepled his fingers in a more relaxed gesture. "As I said, Watson, I am from a desert planet known as Vulcan. We are centuries ahead of your own in technology, with advancements I cannot reveal to you nor would you comprehend if I could. You must trust me when I say that what you know to be your world is only one of many with which we are acquainted. You do not discount the possibility that life may exist outside your own earth?"

I dryly indicated the green-splotched linen around his arm. "It would be foolish to do so."

"Quite. My people, Watson, are…extremely private in nature, both personally and as a whole." Holmes's grey eyes contracted, darkened with some repressed emotion I could not easily grasp hold of in my empathic comprehension. "Which is why we have never attempted to contact other worlds despite being able to do so with our technology. My people believe in no contact with outworlders."

"Why then are you here?" I asked quietly.

A pained look creased his face for a moment. "I was in the Science and Exploration division of our…you would most likely call it a governmental organization. I was attempting an experiment with – well, I should not give you overmuch information," he amended suddenly, "nor would you probably be interested. In short, my ship – space vessel, Watson – was pulled off its course by a gravitational anomaly. When I regained control of the vessel, it was damaged beyond warp capability. Oddly enough, your Terra was the only inhabitable planet within range of my limited engine capabilities."

Terra meaning Earth, I could deduce that much for myself; the majority of the rest of his story was entirely incomprehensible.

"I could not land it anywhere on the planet, as the technology it contained could be quite dangerous; I therefore set the self-destruct mechanism in your upper atmosphere and beamed myself down to the planet just before destruction," Holmes continued his strange tale with a self-deprecatory smile. "I landed in what I discovered later was your Sussex. I must say, Doctor," he added, his voice softening just a fraction, "that your country is quite beautiful; I have never seen the like, the greenery and the abundance of life."

"I am quite lost regarding your terminology, but there will be time for that in future," I interrupted when he paused, "but answer this: Why did you choose England in which to live?"

"Your rich cultural history, for one," Holmes answered. "For another, my people are peace-loving but fierce warriors, Doctor; quite introverted, stoic, you might say staid – in short, your culture was the closest to my own. I should not prefer to live in what your American people are calling the "Wild Wild West," and you are the most technologically advanced country alongside your colonial cousin. Given the choice, I much prefer Britain."

"You speak English flawlessly," I observed. "How long have you lived among us?"

"Only a year before I met you," he answered readily. "One of my race's peculiarities is the ability to assimilate knowledge at a much more rapid rate than a human. We…have our methods of learning an incredible amount of information in a short amount of time."

"Your methods?" I asked suspiciously, for he was obviously hedging around some hidden factor.

"I cannot explain them fully to you, Doctor; not yet, at any rate," he informed me with unaccustomed firmness. "It is poor enough luck that you have discovered my secret, though it was most likely only a matter of time. Mycroft will have to be told, you understand."

"Who?"

"My contact in your government." Holmes grinned somewhat impudently at me. "His surname being Holmes, we agreed that I should take on the role of younger brother to him; that would explain the immense intelligence. In return for my life being spared – for they were fully prepared to do away with me, as you can imagine – I have agreed to serve my country whenever she calls, with my gifts and knowledge. An amicable agreement."

"Posing as this man's brother? Does no one suspect your charade?"

"Pshaw, my dear fellow," Holmes waved a languid hand to accentuate the words, "both I and this man are the most reticent of mortals. No one would ever be more than slightly surprised to find that we had unspoken relatives to speak of. I grant you, we do not look much alike even after my surgical alterations were done, but there have been instances in history of familial resemblances being totally in absence."

I sat silent for a moment, digesting this information, and then looked up at my friend, who was sitting patiently, waiting for me.

"I have a few questions, Holmes."

"I rather thought you might. Ask what you will, Doctor, I shall hide nothing from you."

"Your superior strength and intelligence, I have already observed for myself," I mused aloud. "What other gifts does your race possess, if you can tell me of them?"

Holmes hesitated a moment, and then with a resigned gesture spoke. "For one thing, we are touch-telepaths."

"Meaning…?"

"We can read a man's thoughts if there is skin-to-skin contact," he replied.

"Ah, then that is how you knew you were hurting me," I observed.

"Quite so. Vulcans also possess a much higher pain tolerance than humans, and retain the ability to heal themselves due to a mental trance-like state in which the body's healing functions are accentuated and accelerated." Holmes indicated his arm. "Were I to fall into a healing trance now, then in three hours this would be no more than a painful memory."

"Deucedly handy."

"Indeed." My friend's eyes glinted with amusement at my calm assimilation of the facts being laid out. "Vulcans are known for their mental abilities. There are many things I can do with my mind that would shock you; but I think it better that we not go into those now. Too much knowledge can be a dangerous thing, my dear fellow."

"Agreed," I affirmed with some reluctance, for I found myself compelled and fascinated in turns by this remarkable story and more remarkable individual. "To return to the facts then; are you saying that you are…stranded here?" I asked, recalling his tale.

The man – or was he considered such? – his eyes softened perceptibly, and he looked away from me, into the fire that crackled before us, the only sound in the room for a long, still moment.

Then he looked back at me, with the weight of the world in those eyes. "I am, Watson, quite effectively marooned for as long as I shall live; your people will not see the sort of technology which might be my salvation for another two centuries."

The sadness which I could tell he was suppressing fairly roiled off his composed exteriour, and I laid a hesitant hand on his arm. He did not pull away. "Could your people not come after you?" I asked.

He offered me a thin smile. "It would not be logical to risk detection by your Earth, to come in search of a Science vessel that most likely would have been destroyed by a gravitational anomaly," said he with a tinge of bitterness. "No, Doctor, I shall be written off – have been, no doubt – as simply another scientist who lost his life in his scientific pursuits. A noble way to be remembered, and with insufficient cause to warrant a search for me. No, Doctor, I will remain on your world until I die – which in your Earth years, will probably not be for another one hundred sixty of such."

I stared at my friend, watching as his eyes betrayed the emotions he professed not to feel to any extent; the loneliness and pain at being so far from home and knowing he would never return was creating a physical pain within him, I could feel it.

"My dear Holmes," I whispered at last, barely heard above a snapping coal in the fire, "I – I am so sorry."

He looked up at me strangely, his eyes searching my features for something. Whatever it might have been, I believe he found it, for he relaxed under my hand and the side of his lips twitched. "Thank you, Watson," he answered simply, and with that I knew the matter was closed, for now.

"It is not intolerable," said he after a moment, when I had withdrawn back to my chair. "I find your human culture quite fascinating, and am quite content to spend my time studying it."

"Which is why you are so insufferably bored when you have no case," I supplied, understanding illuminating this and a hundred other details that had intrigued and puzzled me.

"Precisely. My identity will also explain those other little points that have so troubled you, Doctor," he added in a fit of mischief. "My apparent lack of knowledge about most things you consider simple everyday life, my tendency to skip meals and/or sleep, my fondness for the logical progressions of German music."

I grinned, remembering the list of my friend's limits I had compiled two years ago in a stint of boredom; those and many other details were much explained by what this man had just told me. Incredible as it seemed, I nevertheless knew it to be true; he could not lie to me, and there was no other logical explanation. It was also gratifying to know that I was not the only person in the world who held strange secrets that he could tell to no one.

When I voiced this, Holmes fairly radiated contentment, and when he spoke it was in the most tension-free tone I had heard in a long time from my morose companion. "My dear Watson, it is indeed a pleasing thing to have someone – an empath, no less! – to whom I can entrust my secret," said he warmly. "I find my new existence much easier to bear in your company than I did alone for those long, dreary months after my induction into British society."

"What are the chances, do you suppose, of two such...unique, I should say, individuals finding each other in London?" I wondered aloud.

"I believe in every universe there exist some constants, Doctor, which remain the same throughout time and space – certain threads that bind certain people, events, ideals, together; and that they cannot be broken by Fate or anything else," my friend replied, looking so positively mysterious that I wondered if I would ever fully understand all of what he spoke of; could my more finite mind even comprehend his world and what he knew? "Perhaps you and I are two of those constants, Watson. Perhaps."

* * *

**Final author's notes:** Well, if you hadn't guessed it, this was a Star Trek AU. I love both universes equally, and so I fell back on that familiar territory for this belated entry. In _Star Trek: The Undiscovered Country,_ Spock informs us that an ancestor of his said the famous "eliminate the impossible" line. While I don't really believe Holmes was a Vulcan in disguise, that was the inspiration for this. I'm sure it's been done before, but if it has then I haven't seen it anywhere. :) As far as I know, empath!Watson is totally my invention for my NaNo novel, recurring here with a bit more ability than he had in _HI_. He's not a Betazoid, but rather a complete, true empath as seen in the TOS episode of the same name (watch it on IMDB if you haven't, it's awesome).

Feel free to comment with questions or point out stuff I didn't cover, because I meant to do a lot more with this and ran out of time. :/ Thanks for wading through my odd geekiness. *hugs*


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